


and we’ll be flying through the streets with the people underneath

by erce3



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/F, well hermione is a superhero
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:43:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9100867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erce3/pseuds/erce3
Summary: In which Hermione is a superhero and Pansy is a reporter who needs a lot of saving.





	

**Author's Note:**

> originally written as secret santa gift.

Pansy Parkinson is _fresh_ out of grad school. She’s wheedled her way into the most esteemed newspaper company. She wears the most expensive designer brands and lives in a penthouse apartment with long-time friend Draco Malfoy.

 

She also almost gets killed her third month into the job.

 

It’s not exactly her fault; mostly, Pansy is in the wrong place at the wrong time. She’s taking a pitstop at the bank before going to a nice restaurant to meet Daphne Greengrass, her roommate from college.

 

It’s not exactly her job’s fault, either. She’s supposed to be meeting Daphne because it’s rumored her father’s got something to do with some sort of _illegal_ scheme and her boss, Rita Skeeter, wants her to get some information.

 

It doesn’t matter, really, whose fault it is, because Pansy has a gun up to her head and they’re rifling through her favorite Prada purse and she can feel sweat dripping down her neck and onto her expensive new blouse as they look through it and–

  
And she’s fairly certain she’s going to die.

 

One of the robbers pulls something out of her bag and she can’t see what it is and she’s trying to twist to see what they’ve got when the one with a gun up to her head says, “ _Stop_ moving” and so she does.

 

God, Pansy’s _so_ screwed.

 

She starts doing these, like, useless calming exercises her therapist taught her when she was thirteen, back when she crashed her dad’s car and things had spiraled from there. Tries to slow her breathing.

 

And then, of course–“Put the gun down,” orders a girl’s voice, calm and steady and _righteous_ –some new superhero, _Timegirl_ or whatever-the-fuck she calls herself.

 

Pansy cracks open an eye. In some ugly neon red latex onesie is this girl, shorter than she is, hair messy and wild behind her, in the fucking _wonder woman pose_. Her skin is a pretty bronze, too, and her face is stern. “Put the gun down,” repeats the girl.

 

“Are you a superhero?” asks Pansy, looking her up and down skeptically.

 

The girl frowns–her cheeks have little _freckles_. “Sorry, I’m busy _saving your life_.”

 

The robbers have paused, almost comically, and if Pansy weren’t busy reliving all the moments she regrets in her short life, she’d laugh.

 

She sniffs instead. “Then get on with it.”

 

The girl does. It’s impressive, really, because she’s so tiny–Pansy can’t _really_ tell what her superpower is, just that after she blinks, it’s over and the pistol has clattered to the floor. She takes a shaky breath and steps away from it.

 

Everyone else in the bank thanks the girl–“the cops are on the way,” she assures them, glancing over at the now bound robbers–and her face does this cute crinkle as she smiles. She has _dimples_.

 

Pansy can barely swallow her hatred. She huffs. “Next time,” she says, on the way out, “you should be faster.”

 

The girl appears before her–what the fuck sort of power is this? Teleportation?–and frowns. “A thank you would suffice,” she responds stiffly.

 

Pansy looks her over. “I didn’t need your help,” she says, rolling her eyes.

 

“You nearly _died_.”

 

“Very observant, aren’t you?” Pansy raises a thin eyebrow.

 

A beat.

 

“Who _are_ you, anyways?” the superhero asks.

 

“I could ask you the same thing.”

 

The girl’s cute when she’s angry–her nose scrunches up. She plays with her frizzy hair. “I’m–I’m a superhero. Timebender.”

 

“Sweetheart, I think it’s time for a new name.” Pansy gives her this condescending pitying look that would make anyone annoyed. She adds a venomous sugary smile.

 

“I _like_ my name, thank you very much,” says the girl, in a rush.

 

“Doesn’t matter.” Pansy’s tone is sweet, obnoxious, _holier-than-thou_ ; she looks at her phone–not _cracked_ , thank God–and then back up to the girl’s utterly annoyed face. “It’s about what the public thinks,” she clarifies, smile fake.

 

“Really?” says the girl, frowning, as if Pansy’s being _genuine_. “Then rename me.”

 

Pansy looks at her, for a long time. Raises an eyebrow. “Supergirl.”

 

“Too mainstream. Also, _copied_.”

 

Pansy shrugs, shows her a bit of teeth in a smile. “Didn’t say I was the person to come to.”

 

The girl looks back over her shoulder, sighs. “Fine. I like my name.”

 

She’s about to leave when Pansy sucks in a breath. Swallows. And then, quietly–“Chonogal.”

 

“Oh,” the girl says, surprised. “Oh.”

 

“Looks like I did more saving than you did today, _Chronogal_ ,” Pansy says, and walks away before the girl can stop her.

 

/

 

 **BREAKING** : NEW CRIME FIGHTING VIGILANTE SAVES LOCALS FROM BANK ROBBERS; CALLS HERSELF “CHRONOGAL”

 

/

 

Hermione Granger realizes one morning the front page article of the _Times_ is about her. Which is–to say the least, exciting. Harry shoves the article in her face, and she blinks.

 

“ _Chronogal_ ,” he says, disbelieving. “Who convinced you out of _Timebender_ –which was terrible, by the way.”

 

Hermione shrugs. “No one.”

 

“You did not come up with that yourself.”

 

“Maybe I did.”

 

“Hermione.”

 

“I don’t know them, okay? Just some person I rescued.”

 

“They’re brilliant.”

 

Hermione shrugs. “They were _insufferable_.”

 

“Hm,” says Harry. “Only you would say that about the person who _rebranded_ you.”

 

/

 

Rita Skeeter hands her a file, a half-written article based on a hunch, and an invitation to only the most talked-about party of the _year_.

 

She swallows a nasty comment about professional journalists, gives Skeeter a sugary-sweet smile, and promises to show up.

 

When she gets there, it’s a little underwhelming. She takes a flute of champagne and mingles with the other guests, forcing a sweet expression. It’s pretty easy to get secrets out of them–by the time two hours have passed, she knows who’s-who and who’s-doing-who in the upper class of Metropolis.

 

And then, in the middle of it all, is Cedric Diggory.

 

He pauses every so often, downs a whole glass of champagne, loosens his collar.

 

Pansy Parkinson was practically _raised_ by secrets. She knows them better than she knows her own father. And Diggory? Diggory has a secret.

 

When she tries to talk to him, he manages to introduce her to someone she already knows and walks away too fast. It’s almost painful how clear it is–he’s afraid of her, a reporter. Pansy lets a smile stretch across her face.

 

At midnight, she catches him being dragged by the chief of police, Harry Potter, upstairs, smiles, and makes her way to follow him.

 

Except.

 

Except they lock the door behind them.

 

So, her next option is obvious–Pansy decides to climb up the four or so stories, film them, and send it to Skeeter. She’s almost at the point of a raise, and her father isn’t exactly happy with how much she spends, anyways.

 

She almost falls, twice, but by the time she’s at the window, and recording them, it seems worth it. They’re talking about something–a guest at the party. Oh, Skeeter’s going to love this. Pansy’s very pleased with herself, until she begins to wobble off the windowsill.

 

If this is the way she dies, so be it.

 

She trips over and a sudden rush of adrenaline courses through her as she grabs at handholds, panicked at the sudden lack of _something_ underneath her, and, oh _fuck_ she’s so going to fall, because–

 

Because she’s hanging on, literally by her fingernails, trying to heave herself up–god, she wishes _now_ she went with Draco the gym in the mornings–and about to cry out, momentarily forgetting her dignity, when suddenly a voice shouts, “ _Drop!_ I’ll catch you!”

 

Pansy grumbles, “Fat chance,” and looks down. Her stomach heaves as she sees everything below her. “Fuck,” she says. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ”

 

“Expletives won’t save you,” says the very familiar voice, annoyed. And then, more calming, “it’s going to be okay. I will catch you.”

 

Pansy’s shaking. “ _Fuck_ ,” she says again, and then thinks about what would happen if Diggory, or Potter, saw her there.

 

Heart in her throat, she looks down again, and eases slowly–

 

She stops herself. “I _can’t_ ,” she says, desperate, and she can feel tears starting to roll down her face, “it’s too far.”

 

“I promise, it’ll be okay. I _will_ catch you.”

 

Her arms are shaking. “ _I_ –” she says, unable to hold on, and slips.

 

She’s suddenly clawing at the window, a cry starting up from her throat, because–god, she’s going to die, and everything’s blurry and time’s _slowing_ , crawling, and she’s not sure if she’s screaming or if she’s crying or if it’s the wind against her cheeks and she’s going to die, this is it, and suddenly–

 

suddenly, she’s in a pair of spandex-clad arms and she’s still _sobbing_ against someone’s chest, trying to calm herself.

 

“You’re okay,” says the girl, softly.

 

Pansy kind of wants to bury more into her chest, but forces herself to look up at the girl’s face.

 

Pales.

 

Then, after a pause–barks out a laugh.

 

“Are you _following_ me?”

 

“I just saved your life,” says Chronogal, irritated.

 

“I had it figured out. I would’ve been fine.”

 

“You–oh my _god_ , you just _fell_ from _four stories_!”

 

Pansy pretends her makeup isn’t running, that her cheeks aren’t red and puffy from crying. “Well,” she drawls, “Thanks anyways, Chronogal. I’m gonna call a cab.”

 

“Do you want–” Chronogal seems like she doesn’t know how to feel, like she’s going to regret whatever she says next, “do you want me to give you a ride home?”

 

“In _what_ , your batmobile?”

 

“It was an offer!”

 

“You really are a stalker, aren’t you? How about this–I’ll leave out the whole stalking ordeal when I tell the press _if_ you don’t tell Diggory or Malfoy.”

 

Chronogal throws up her arms in annoyance. She’s pretty, especially when she’s grumpy–and Pansy gulps. God, she’s _so_ far gone.

 

“Have a nice night, now,” says Pansy, sugar sweet.

 

/

 

 **BREAKING:** CHRONOGAL SAVES REPORTER FROM NEAR DEATH

 

/

 

Pansy dreams the falling accident over and over.

 

Time slows. Her breathing gets heavier.

 

Chronogal catches her and Pansy–

 

Pansy does what she’d wanted to do that night. She reaches up and cups Chronogal’s cheek, gives her a winning smile, and kisses her.

 

Chronogal, every time, kisses her back.

 

She reaches to take off Chronogal’s red mask, and time slows–

 

“That’s you, isn’t it? Slowing time?” says Pansy, over and over in her dreams.

 

Chronogal’s response varies. The gist is: yes, I want it to be important, you seeing my face. But the dream ends, always the same–

 

Right as Pansy peels off the mask, she wakes up.

 

/

 

Harry gives Hermione a coffee with the paper. “Where was that?” he says, pointing to the headline. “Which reporter?”

 

Hermione shrugs. “I don’t remember where, truthfully.” She does her best to be convincing; pretends to be nonchalant, skans the newspaper as if it’s no big deal. As if she hasn’t been thinking about the reporter ever since that night.

 

She can’t focus enough to read anything but the first few words: _Reporter Pansy Parkinson explains_ …

 

Pansy Parkinson. Hermione runs the name over in her head, smiles.

 

Harry whacks her.

 

“Hermione.” He gives her a _look_. “You remember every place you’ve been in, since, like, you were six.”   
  
“You’re _ridiculous_ , you know that?” She takes a sip of her coffee. “It’s just–”

 

“Just what?”  


“The reporter. Pansy Parkinson. That I saved. I keep seeing her, saving her.”

 

“So what?”  


Hermione closes her eyes and squashes whatever she’s feeling with _annoyance_. “She’s a menace, that’s what!”

 

He doesn’t respond, just raises an eyebrow.

 

/

 

Pansy sits in this very nice cubicle with a view of the rooftops of the city through the window. When she glances at it, however, bile rises up in her throat and nausea curls in her stomach.

 

 _She’s scrambling for a handhold_.

 

Pansy snaps her eyes closed, tries to steady her breathing.

 

_Falling._

 

She counts to ten, over and over and over again.

 

 _About to collide with concrete_.

 

She can’t bring herself to look out on the window, to do anything but get off the sixth floor of the building. “I’m not feeling well,” she says in a rush to Skeeter as she heads for the stairs. Her head in spinning and she wants to throw up.

 

Pansy closes her eyes when she makes it outside, sighs, and calls an uber. The car that pulls up is a chipped black, and the driver stinks.

 

She curls her lips. His backseat is full of junk. There’s something off about the whole thing, but all she can think about is how if–if she were in danger, Chronogal would save her, right?

 

And she _really_ wants to see Chronogal again.

 

She gets in the car.

 

/

 

That’s how Pansy Parkinson ends up in a high-speed car chase.

 

It’s a little bit her fault–she got in the car, pretending like she did believe it was her Uber (it wasn’t), and now they’re speeding at high speeds across the streets of the city and she’s pretty sure she’s going to die.

 

“Of course,” she grumbles, “it would be me in the middle of a car chase.”

 

“You got in, sweetheart,” says the criminal.

 

“Why are you running, anyway?” says Pansy, ignoring him. She _knows_ she got in.

 

Some part of her is hoping to be rescued, she thinks.

 

He pauses. He’s _grimy_ and the car smells like cigarette smoke. She rolls down the window. “God, it stinks in here.” Pauses. Softer, “tell me it wasn’t for murder.”

 

“Not for murder.” His voice goes quiet and he adds, “it’s for cocaine.”

 

“Hm,” she says, unimpressed. “Boring.”

 

He frowns.

 

She continues, “I mean, I don’t see why you’re being secretive. They’ve already caught you.”

 

His eyes narrow. “You’re also my hostage.”

 

“Is that a _threat_?”

 

He shrugs. She sneers.

 

“I hope there’s nothing gross on this carseat, I like this dress,” she adds, snapping down her favorite pair of cat-eye sunglasses. “How against the rules is it to tweet this?”

 

He looks at her then, incredulous. “You’re my _hostage_ ,” he repeats.

 

“Hm,” she says. “Noted, thanks.”

 

He swerves a corner and she lurches to the right. “Jesus _Christ_ , can you be a little more careful?” she snaps.

 

“I’m sorry,” he sneers, “but I’m kind of being _chased by police_.”

 

“I’m a _hostage_ for some sort of trading purpose, presumably. You don’t want to _damage_ me.”

 

He slams on the breaks in reply. She screams despite herself.

 

“Get out of the car, please,” says someone from outside.

 

“Fuck,” he says.

 

“Is that Chronogal?” calls Pansy.

 

“Why–I don’t even want to know,” says the superhero, sighing. “Just step out of the car.”

 

“Move out of the road,” says Pansy’s driver, “or I shoot her.”

 

Pansy frowns. “ _Rude_ ,” she says. “I mean, where’s your gun?”

  
He’s about to shush her, except in an instant, Pansy is out of the car, a little dizzy, and the guy’s on the ground, tied up.

 

“I still don’t know how you do that.”  
  
“Time manipulation. Hence, Timebender.”

 

“Still a bad name.” Pause. Pansy looks up at Chronogal’s eyes, and then to her lips. “Also, _hence_?”

 

“Why were you involved in this, Pansy Parkinson?”

 

“Oh my god, you _are_ stalking me! You know my name!” crows Pansy.

 

“I–” Cronogal’s cheeks get a little darker. “I saw it in the papers, seeing as I _saved_ you. Anyways, I’m not under questioning, why were you involved in this?”

 

“Whatever you ask, _stalker_ ,” says Pansy, winking. “He told me he was my Uber driver. Turns out, he stole the phone.”

 

“Didn’t he seem–suspicious?”

 

Pansy presses her lips together. Yes, he had. She doesn’t want to admit she’d gotten in on the hopes he _would_ have been a criminal and she’d have to be saved, again. “No,” she lies.

 

“And here I was, thinking you were clever.”

 

Pansy sniffs. “I _am_ clever. I just spend my time with decent company. Doesn’t leave me with the skills to detect _criminals_.”

 

“Whatever you say, Pansy Parkinson.”

  
  
Her own name leaves her throat dry.

 

/

 

 **BREAKING:** SUPERHERO “CHRONOGAL” CATCHES LOCAL DRUG DEALER, UNCOVERING DRUG EMPIRE; SAVES REPORTER IN THE PROCESS

 

/

 

@ **officialpansyp** hey @chronogal thanks for saving me xx

@ **chronogal** @officialpansyp What about the other two times?

@ **officialpansyp** @chronogal what other two times? ;)

 

/

 

Pansy doesn’t _actually_ mean to end up in a burning building. Regardless, she might have ended up in one on purpose at _some point_ , judging by her rapidly developing crush on Chronogal and subsequent ability to make worse and worse decisions, but she didn’t mean to end up _here._

 

She’s pretty sure this is Skeeter’s fault, anyway; they’re always publishing her shady articles.

 

So.

 

She’s in a building, which is on fire.

 

And she can’t breathe, and she’s on the sixth story, and–and–

 

 _God_ , she’s going to die.

 

There’s fire blocking the stairs, and she’s on the floor, feeling her mascara run and _coughing_ and she’s so certain she’s going to die because she’s crying and it’s so hot and her lungs feel like collapsing and everything’s all wrong, because this isn’t how she’s supposed to die and all she can think about is that Chronogal might not come this time and the smoke is steadily getting thicker and she’s too high up to get down and she keeps trying to take a breath–

 

–except it hurts and she’s tired, and there’s people around her screaming to move and her eyelids are heavy and, god, she’s going to die, and she doesn’t want to and every time she sucks air in her throat burns and she’s crying, which seems like a bad idea, and coughing and it’s horrible and everything’s gone wrong and all she can think of is Chronogal, which is stupid and she inhales, heavily–

 

and the last thing she thinks is, _I should have told her_.

 

/

 

 **BREAKING** : CHRONOGAL HAS BREAKDOWN UPON FINDING BODY OF REPORTER IN BURNING BUILDING

 

/

 

Hermione spends her Saturday night in the emergency room in a leopard print snuggie Harry bought off one of those television ads, unable to speak. There’s a ringing in her ears. A couple doctors ask if she wants them to check out the scratch on her cheek.

 

She barely hears them.

 

Everything feels off, all of a sudden. Someone comes in to reassure her, everything’s going to be okay, and Hermione doesn’t say anything.

 

It feels almost as if she’s lost something she never had in the first place. It’s feels like–like discovering a hole in your chest and realizing you’ll never be able to fill it.

 

She doesn’t cry.

 

She wants salty, hot tears to roll down her face, but they _don’t_. They stick in her eyes and when she closes them she only sees Pansy’s face, cold and pale, and they tears don’t come.

 

Maybe she’s glad they don’t–if they did, it would feel over.

 

Maybe it’s why she isn’t crying, why she isn’t sleeping–if she takes things minute by minute, maybe Pansy won’t be almost-gone forever.

 

When Harry shoves a warm coffee in her hands, she doesn’t drink it.

 

She tells herself she’s nauseous and puts it underneath her chair.

  
When she thinks to drink it again, it’s cold.

 

Everything is _wrong_ about the world. It’s off-kilter.

 

She doesn’t let herself sleep until someone comes in and tells her that Pansy’s stable. She doesn’t full on cry then, either. She just gasps. Mulls over the information.

  
Swallows.

 

Feels a tear roll down her cheek, and then–

 

And then she’s sobbing, and she can’t place why, but it doesn’t matter, because everything’s going to be okay.

 

/

 

When Pansy wakes up, groggy, there’s Draco in the doorway, smiling like an idiot. She blinks. “Am I on pain meds?” is the first thing that comes out of her mouth.

 

The doctor’s eyes scrunch up, like he’s laughing, except she can’t see his mouth. “Yes.”

 

“Tell that boy over there,” says Pansy, cocking her head, “the supermodel one, that he has the ugliest smile and also my number is–”

 

She starts rattling off as many numbers as she can think of and the nurse excuses himself, sighing, and Draco’s just sitting there, laughing, because Pansy’s on pain meds and then she sees a girl with these _eyes_ and says–

 

“Chronogal?”

 

The girl is not in a red latex onesie, but her hair–it’s her hair and her freckles and these dimples when Pansy turns her gaze over to her because she’s smiling and, _wow_ , Pansy can’t think to say anything other than “I’m gay. And you’re Chronogal” and to laugh.

 

Chronogal blushes and rearranges her leopard print snuggie. Which is–

 

 _Oh_. Chronogal’s _here_. “I hate you,” says Chronogal.

 

And–she’s not wearing a mask.

 

It hits Pansy a little like a bullet train, though she’s not sure if it’s just the pain meds or if it’s just super exciting. Her eyes probably go comically wide because Draco’s snickering in the corner. “I forgot to tell you,” says Pansy. “When I was dying, I couldn’t tell you.”

 

“Tell me what?” says the girl, and _God_ , she’s a horrible liar. “I’m not–I’m _ordinary_.”

 

Pansy scrunches up her nose. “Don’t be silly. Lying is bad. Here is something that isn’t a lie: I’m in love with you.”

 

Pansy’s pretty sure she’s said something horrifically embarrassing, but her head is full of cotton balls, so she can’t figure out what.

 

The girl pauses.

 

Sucks her breath in.

 

Closes her eyes.

 

“My name’s Hermione Granger,” she says. “I think I might love you too.”  



End file.
